


Dancing

by the_pen_is_mightier



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Fluff without Plot, M/M, Post-Canon, Slow Dancing, These boys are so in love, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, best of queen, short fic, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 22:04:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20235106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_pen_is_mightier/pseuds/the_pen_is_mightier
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale dance. It's not good dancing, or maybe it is.





	Dancing

**Author's Note:**

> This is a shorter-form fic from my tumblr @whatawriterwields. Enjoy!

It starts with Crowley dancing. 

He’s drunk, and he’s high on saving the world and saving Aziraphale, and somehow Aziraphale’s record player is spitting out a Queen song that was most definitely _not_ what Aziraphale put on. And Crowley is laughing, at a joke or at some silly comment or possibly just at the glorious absurdity of the lives they’ve lived that have led them to this bookshop. And he gets up and begins to sway to the beat.

It’s not what you would call good dancing. But Aziraphale, nestled in his armchair, enjoys the view; he sits back with his glass of wine and watches contentedly. 

_Don’t stop me now_, Freddie Mercury urges.

“Ha!” Crowley cries. “Don’t stop us ever!" 

Aziraphale nods, serene, as though Crowley has just said something unimaginably wise. 

That’s how it starts. It continues when the tune shifts, when _We Are The Champions_ blares through the shelves, louder than it has any right to be. When Crowley downs the rest of his wine and, grinning maniacally, grabs Aziraphale’s hand and hauls him to his feet.

“Dear,” says Aziraphale with a hiccup, “I can’t dance.”

“Sure you can.” Crowley pulls him along as he keeps up his clumsy routine. “You can do anything. We can do anything! We’re -” he waits for the music to swell again, his eyes alight without sunglasses - “we’re the _champions_, Aziraphale!” 

Aziraphale, as it turns out, doesn’t require much persuading; he lets Crowley lead him without further complaint. He smiles as they step clumsily in time with the rhythm. 

“‘Member the church?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley grins. “1941, you mean?”

“You were dancing like this. Then.” Aziraphale giggles as he remembers Crowley’s hop-step down the aisle. Then he remembers the books, and his giggle subsides, sudden, surprising warmth replacing it. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, and grips Crowley’s hand tighter. 

Crowley is cavalier, suave, when he raises Aziraphale’s hand to his lips and softly kisses his knuckles. But he’s flame-red when he lowers the hand again. Aziraphale feels buoyant. He feels like he’s flying. He feels like the light of a million galaxies is concentrated in the form of the demon in front of him.

That’s when the music shifts again. The tempo slows. Freddie Mercury sings again, plaintive - _I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things..._

And their dancing stills. Their storm of celebration, their exhilarating swirl of emotion seems to funnel sharply into two quiet breaths. 

They look at each other. 

_We can do the tango just for two..._

And they’re not really sure how it happens, but quite suddenly, without either one exactly making the proposal, they’ve drawn together. Aziraphale’s hand is on Crowley’s shoulder and Crowley’s rests on Aziraphale’s waist, and their other two hands twine together. They find their chests flush, and for a moment they stare into each other’s eyes.

“Angel,” Crowley whispers, his voice hoarse, a little slurred, “I’m so in love with you.” 

Aziraphale smiles and lays his head against Crowley’s chest. “The feeling is mutual, my dear.”

He hears Crowley’s heartbeat. It doesn’t need to exist, but it always seems to, somehow, when Aziraphale is around. It beats with the force of a love Aziraphale is only beginning to fathom. A love that envelops him, now, as Crowley leans against him, and their feet find a slow pattern to trace on the bookshop’s floor. 

_Oooh, love, oooh, lover boy..._

Crowley begins to hum, the sound vibrating through his body and into Aziraphale’s. A steady, easy thing, like a cat’s purr, like a car’s engine, like a harp’s strings when angelic fingers brush across them. Aziraphale twists his head to kiss Crowley’s cheek. Crowley sighs, his body melting further into Aziraphale, as though he wants to lose himself in this embrace. 

“Hold me forever,” Crowley mumbles. “Won’t you?”

Aziraphale’s answering whisper in Crowley’s ear lines up perfectly with the music. “Your wish is my command.” 

That’s how it ends. With the two of them in each other’s arms, Heaven and Hell far away, their minds hazy, their breaths in time. Their hearts content. It’s an end foreshadowed by the omen of a long-ago white wing sheltering a demon from the rain. It turns out that was a good omen. Who could have guessed?


End file.
